


Glass Fish on a Flat Barrel

by seaholly



Series: Guiding Hand [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Cuddling, Discipline, M/M, Pre-Slash, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaholly/pseuds/seaholly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides to experiment, in more ways than one. John reacts by laying down the law.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass Fish on a Flat Barrel

 

It wasn’t unusual for John Watson to dream of gunfire.

John didn’t think this was so surprising, really. He’d been in a war, after all; he’d heard more gunshots than he could ever possibly count, and under some pretty damn traumatic circumstances at times. He’d even been shot himself, although the sound that one had made had been lost to a fog of pain and adrenaline. The point was, however, that his dreaming of the noise of gunshots was no unusual thing.

What _was_ unusual was for him to startle awake, heart pounding, and find that he could still hear them.

_What the hell?_

For a moment John was hopelessly confused, but only for a moment. His thoughts cleared in a rush as it dawned on him that yes, that really was gunfire he was hearing, and what’s more it was coming from directly below him.

_Sherlock!_

John was out of bed in an instant, his bare feet skidding on the rug. Without hesitation he lunged for the door, yanked it open and dashed down the stairs at a full run, turning himself on an angle in an instinctive effort not to trip and likely break his neck. Another shot rang out even as he ran, and he hoped desperately that it was Sherlock doing that shooting, Sherlock playing silly buggers with his gun again, and not someone else shooting at Sherlock. It might sound mad, but Sherlock got himself in trouble so often, made enemies so easily, it was by no means an impossibility.

He jumped the last few steps, hit the landing and burst through the door into the living room, heedless of his own safety, quite prepared to fight to defend Sherlock if it _was_ someone else doing the shooting . . . and then he froze, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.

It wasn’t someone else doing the shooting. That was the only positive John could find in this situation. Because there was Sherlock, incongruously tousled, barefoot and pyjama-clad, standing with face intent and gun in hand, pointing both at the table. No, scratch that—at the large piece of laboratory glassware that was standing _on_ the table. Shards of glass littered to all sides told John that it was by no means the first victim.

Some part of his mind was aware that what he was seeing was actually exactly what he’d hoped for just moments ago—Sherlock doing something mad instead of Sherlock being attacked—but it made no difference whatsoever to his temper. Instantly furious, he opened his mouth to shout, just as Sherlock squeezed the trigger again. John flinched, automatically clapping his hands over his ears, and the unfortunate piece of glassware exploded in a rain of glittering fragments, which joined the others scattered across the table and the floor around it.

Sherlock lowered the gun, moving forward to check his handiwork, and John took the opportunity to make his feelings known. Or rather, to shout in a voice that would have been perfectly at home on any parade ground in the world:

“ _What the bloody hell are you doing!?_ ”

Sherlock jumped a little at his bellow, but quickly composed himself, turning to arch a perfectly superior eyebrow at John. “Good morning to you too,” he said.

John’s fury ratcheted up another notch at this blatant display of cheek, but before he could open his mouth to shout again, he heard Mrs Hudson’s voice calling from downstairs.

“John, love, whatever he’s doing make him stop, will you? Someone’s going to call the police at this rate!”

John moved back to the door to call down to her. “It’s all right, Mrs Hudson, he’s stopping. I’ll handle it.”

“Good for you!” she called back, and John turned a hard, furious stare back on Sherlock.

“Good for me indeed,” he said grimly, and pointed a rigid finger at the disaster that used to be their living room. “I’m going to go and get dressed. You clean this up. Now.”

Sherlock didn’t look quite so cocky anymore in the face of John’s obvious anger, but he still made a valiant try at it. “It can wait, John. I need to record my results.”

John was at his side in two steps. He took Sherlock firmly by the elbow, turned him, and smacked him hard. Sherlock jumped and gasped at the impact, and John rewarded the reaction with another smack on top of the first one. He turned Sherlock around to face him again, noting with satisfaction the wince and the wide eyes.

“Clean. It. Up,” he ordered, fairly gritting out the words. “And for God’s sake use the dustpan and the brush. And put some bloody slippers on before you cut your feet to ribbons. When you’re finished, you can go to your room and wait for me.”

Sherlock’s eyes went even wider at that, and without another word he began moving hesitantly towards the kitchen. John glared him through the door, but at the last moment, having realised that Sherlock might or might not have any idea where such an item was located, he called out, “The dustpan is in the cupboard under the sink.”

And then he turned around and stormed back up the stairs, muttering dire imprecations under his breath the whole way. Reaching the relative peace and safety of his bedroom, he pointedly did not let himself slam the door even though he wanted to, but closed it quietly behind him, stalked across and sank down heavily onto his bed.

Only to wince and get straight back up again a moment later, as his backside reminded him that there was a good reason why he’d spent much of the night sleeping on his front. That demonstration with the cane yesterday was still very much in evidence today.

And now he was going to have to spank Sherlock again—and he was going to have to make it a good one, too, for that piece of insanity. Brilliant. What a bloody inconvenient time for him to be sore too.

And that wasn’t the only inconvenient thing about Sherlock’s timing, either. Christ, they hadn’t even talked over the bloody rules properly yet!

John had actually intended for them to do that today. He’d realised last night—unfortunately after he’d already gone to bed or he might have tackled it then and there—that while they’d agreed on the basics of their new arrangement, they hadn’t even really touched on the details of it. Details, for instance, like exactly what sort of misbehaviour would get Sherlock punished, which seemed rather important to get straight. Obviously John had already made it clear that he’d punish Sherlock over issues of his safety, but there were grades and shades of safety. Sherlock’s job as a whole wasn’t particularly safe, but John certainly had no intention of trying to stop him from working. He just didn’t want Sherlock putting himself in _unnecessary_ danger.

Of course, there would most likely be some disagreements over exactly what constituted unnecessary danger. But that was exactly why John had wanted to have a proper conversation about the rules, so that they’d both know where they stood. He didn’t want to be constantly springing punishments on Sherlock over rules he didn’t know he was breaking. And not to mention, if they didn’t go over the rules then he wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to use that as an excuse and cry unfair, even if he knew perfectly well that he wasn’t supposed to do whatever it was he’d done.

John sighed to himself, rubbing a hand over his face in mingled frustration and resignation. Well, there was no help for it now. He’d just have to go ahead with this punishment, and save the conversation about the rules until afterwards. Sherlock had chosen to act up again before they’d had a chance to discuss things, so now he’d just have to take the consequences.

Besides, Sherlock had already made it clear that he responded well to John being an authority figure—that he needed it, even. And so the best thing to do now was probably for John to just _be_ that authority figure, and insist that Sherlock follow his lead. They may not have actually sat down and talked about the rules, but John was the one _making_ the rules, and if he had to make some of them up on the spot for the moment, then so be it. He could do that.

And Sherlock . . . well, Sherlock would just do as he was told if he knew what was good for him.

Although they _would_ have a conversation—a proper conversation—about the rules. Today. Definitely. Just . . . later. For right now, though, John would concern himself with being Captain Authority Figure, and with giving Sherlock exactly what he deserved for this latest bit of madness.

And at least with this particular piece of misbehaviour, he didn’t have to worry about Sherlock being unaware that he was breaking any rules. Sherlock knew bloody well he was supposed to keep his hands off John’s gun—John had made that more than clear to him. This morning’s antics had been absolutely blatant disobedience on Sherlock’s part.

Actually, now that John was thinking about it, the obnoxious level of disobedience and the sheer inconvenience of the timing rather made him wonder. Just how deliberate had that bit of rampant misbehaviour been? Yes, Sherlock could go raving mad at a moment’s notice, but shooting glassware off the table at—John checked the clock at his bedside—seven o’ bloody clock in the morning was a bit on the extreme side. No doubt Sherlock would have some explanation for it that made sense in his mind, but he must have known that John would be furious about it. He’d already told Sherlock very firmly that his gun was off-limits unless someone’s life was in danger, and that it definitely wasn’t for playing with inside.

But Sherlock had done it anyway, and what’s more, he’d done it when John couldn’t possibly fail to find out about it. He could have waited until John was out—he’d certainly done that before—but instead he’d chosen to shoot glassware when John was upstairs in bed and thus could hardly miss repeated gunshots from the room directly below him. Which meant one of two things: either Sherlock didn’t care if John found out, or he’d actively wanted John to find out.

Really, the more John thought about it, the less it looked like Sherlock having one of his mad moments and the more it looked like an entirely deliberate and calculated piece of misbehaviour.

And actually, given that this was Sherlock he was talking about, it might be even more calculated than that. Could Sherlock have chosen to misbehave by taking John’s gun precisely because that was an already established rule that he could break? Had he deduced that John would want to discuss the rules with him? And since John hadn’t yet done so, had Sherlock decided to break an already existing rule so that there was no way for him to claim he didn’t know about it?

It was, John thought, entirely possible. This was _Sherlock_ he was talking about; anything was possible. But if this really was a deliberate and calculated piece of misbehaviour—and it certainly looked like one to John’s deductive eye, such as it was—then the question was why.

And that, John thought wryly, was always the problem with Sherlock: trying to work out the motivations that went on in that mad genius head of his.

Was Sherlock perhaps thinking that with John sore from his caning demonstration—and with Sherlock himself still carrying bruises from his first spanking—John would be reluctant to spank him again? Was he using the opportunity he saw in that to act up, thinking he could get away with it? Maybe even wanting to prove to himself that he could, trying to buck against their arrangement before it even really got started?

Or—and this was an even more interesting question—was he actually testing the theory of John’s possible reluctance, pushing at boundaries to find out if John would indeed still discipline him despite inconveniences? Was he trying to make a deduction on how committed John was going to be to this?

Or going even further again, was he pushing boundaries to test whether their arrangement was really going to hold at all? It was only a few days old, after all, and it had been a pretty fundamental change. Bloody hell, could he be feeling insecure about it?

John growled under his breath. It could be any one of those things, or a combination of them, or something else entirely that he hadn’t even thought of. But one thing was for sure—whatever the reason, Sherlock was bloody well going to learn a lesson from this. If it was rebellion—well, then Sherlock was going to find out just what rebellious behaviour earned him. If John’s commitment was being tested, then he was going to pass with flying colours. And if Sherlock _was_ feeling uncertain, and trying to find out whether John had meant what he said, then he was soon going to be feeling _much more secure_.

Right, he thought grimly. First things first. He needed to get dressed and tidied up. If he was going to be Captain Authority Figure—and he planned to stamp Captain Authority Figure all over this little situation, thank you—then he’d rather not be doing it in his pyjamas.

And once he’d done that, then he’d have to deal with the slightly trickier part. Sherlock was going to get spanked good and proper, and that meant that first John needed to find the right implement to use on him.

That was something else he’d planned to do today: start having a hunt around for things, either in the flat or going out shopping if he had to. After all, he’d known he was going to need spanking implements, so he’d thought he ought to start acquiring some. He just hadn’t expected that Sherlock would be up for another round quite so soon.

John gave a mental snort at his own naiveté. Really, he should have known better. Sherlock could barely go a day without misbehaving much of the time.

So, going shopping for an implement was out for the moment, unless he absolutely had to. He supposed he could leave Sherlock to wait while he went out, but he’d rather not—God only knew what he’d come home to. But that was okay; there’d be time for shopping in the future. For now, there had to be something in the flat that he could use.

He thought of the canes first—probably not surprising, since he could still feel the results of his own experience with them—and for a moment he was tempted. Really, Sherlock probably deserved a dose of the cane for this debacle. But then he considered the state of Sherlock’s bottom, and decided that caning him would just be too harsh on top of the bruises that were already there. Besides, he’d rather reserve the cane for the most serious stuff, for Sherlock’s really dangerous, life-threatening sort of misbehaviour. Well—the more severe canes, at least. There might be a place for the lighter ones lower down on the bad behaviour scale. He’d need to think that over.

For now, though—no. Not with Sherlock already carrying bruises. He’d find something else.

His eyes strayed to his slippers. He’d thought of them during that first spanking, wishing he’d worn them to save his hand—and if he had, he’d most likely have used one. Looking at them now, though, they’d be damn awkward to use. As a last resort, maybe, if he couldn’t find anything else, but he’d really prefer something he could hold onto more easily.

Okay. A hairbrush, then. Or a wooden spoon. Both of those were nice and traditional. Either one would work to teach Sherlock a lesson.

John thought first of his own hairbrush, and frowned. His was a bit on the light and cheap side, really. Not that it wouldn’t sting, especially on bare skin, but it could be better.

Sherlock’s hairbrush, however . . . oh, yes. Much better. He had a fancy looking wooden thing, with a flat smooth back. Actually, now that John was thinking about it, it might as well have been designed as a spanking implement. Well, if so, it had ended up with the right person.

Right. Sherlock’s hairbrush it was, then. Really, it was bloody appropriate that he get his misbehaving backside tanned with his own posh bloody hairbrush.

With that decision made, John snatched up some clothes and headed for the bathroom. He quickly got dressed, brushed his teeth and splashed some water on his face. Brushed his hair—looking at his hairbrush in a somewhat different light, and confirming his opinion that Sherlock’s would definitely work better.

Finally, he checked his reflection in the mirror, and decided that he looked suitably tidy and together for being a disciplinarian. And then he did an about turn and marched grimly downstairs as if he was going into battle.

When he came into the living room, Sherlock was still industriously occupied with cleaning up the sea of broken glass that his ‘experiment’ (whatever the hell it had been) had turned the floor into. He was, to John’s relief, using the dustpan and the brush. However, to John’s corresponding displeasure, he had _not_ put slippers on.

He was so heavily into his authority figure mode that the bark in his voice was automatic. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock actually jumped, turning to look over his shoulder at John with a deceptively wide-eyed, innocent expression. “Yes?”

“Did I or did I not tell you to put slippers on before you cleaned that up?”

Sherlock looked down at his feet, then back up at John. “I haven’t cut myself.”

“Not the point,” John said sharply. “Stand up and come here.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened even more, alarm flaring brightly in the grey. He stood, slowly, the reluctance written plainly across his face. He didn’t come any closer, though, and after a moment, when he still didn’t move, John snapped his fingers and pointed very deliberately at the spot just in front of him.

“Come. Here.”

Even he recognised how stern he sounded that time, and apparently it got through to Sherlock too, since he did as he was told, eyeing John warily as he approached.

John took him firmly by the elbow and turned him sideways, then planted a hard, deliberate smack low down across his bottom. Sherlock flinched as it connected, but John held him steady and followed the first smack up with another, just as hard. Turning him back around, he ignored the wounded expression and met Sherlock’s eyes sternly and steadily.

“That was for not doing as you were told,” he said. “Now go and put your slippers on, and then you can clean the rest of that mess up.”

He let go of Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock hastily stepped back out of reach, hurt look still firmly in place. He made for his room without a word, returning a few moments later with slippers in hand. He stopped just shy of the edge of the glass, cast an aggrieved glance at John, and pointedly put them on.

_Bloody cheek_ , was John’s first thought. Then: _No, testing. Testing to see what I’ll do_.

“Take that look off your face,” he said sharply. If Sherlock was testing for a reaction, then John was quite willing to give him one.

“You’re in disgrace and you deserved what you got for disobeying me,” he went on. “There’s going to be plenty more where that came from, too. Do you want me to smack you again right now?”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide again, and a faint flush of colour rose in his cheeks. He shook his head quickly.

“Good. Then stop pouting and clean that up,” John ordered.

Apparently the threat of being smacked again had been enough, because Sherlock did as he was told with no more sulky looks, although he threw John some anxious sideways glances as he hastily worked to clean up the rest of the glass. John stood off to one side and watched his progress, arms crossed and face stern. He ignored the worried looks, thinking that Sherlock really ought to be a bit worried about what was coming to him after that performance. And while Sherlock cleaned up the ridiculous mess he’d made, John was thinking over his plans for exactly what _was_ coming to him.

By the time the floor was finally glass free, and the multitude of fragments had been triple-bagged and put safely off to one side, John felt he had a pretty good idea of just how he was going to handle this. He wasn’t exactly used to thinking up punishments, but he’d borrowed from his own experiences and combined it in his head with his knowledge of Sherlock. There’d be room for adapting things later, but for now he had a solid plan to work with.

So, time to get this started. As Sherlock turned back to face him, John pointed a firm finger in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. “All right. To your room, please.”

Sherlock looked almost pleading at that, but he obediently headed for his room. John followed him, and once they were inside he gave the room a quick, sweeping onceover.

“That corner,” he said, selecting the emptiest one and pointing at it. “Stand in it and face the wall.”

Sherlock’s eyes went huge, and he stared at John in obvious disbelief. “You’re not serious,” he said flatly.

“I’m entirely serious,” John replied, trying to make sure that his face and voice both reflected exactly how serious he was.

He’d known Sherlock wasn’t going to like this part—and apparently he hadn’t been expecting it either, if the shock in his face was any indication—but John wasn’t going to let that sway him. The first time he’d spanked Sherlock, it had been done on impulse and without any warning, out of sheer frustration at Sherlock’s tantrum and his cavalier attitude to his safety. It had come out of the blue for both of them, and John still wasn’t sure which of them had been more surprised by it.

This spanking, however—the first one Sherlock was getting since their arrangement had been in place—was going to be very different, and so were any future ones that came after it. There would be proper preparation, for one thing. There would be careful consideration of what level of punishment would be appropriate for the misbehaviour. And there would be time set aside before the spanking, for Sherlock to consider exactly what he’d done wrong and understand why he was being punished, as well as anticipate the punishment itself.

And as far as John was concerned, standing him in the corner to do that seemed like an entirely appropriate option.

It was unfortunate that they hadn’t had a chance to discuss it ahead of time, so that Sherlock would know what was happening and why. But Sherlock was the one who had decided to act up again before they’d had time to talk about things—quite possibly in an entirely calculated way, no less. And John certainly wasn’t going to renege on his part of their agreement just because they hadn’t written up a contract and signed in triplicate. No, he was going to start as he meant to go on. Sherlock had agreed to him being an authority figure, _needed_ him to be an authority figure, and John was going to give him exactly what he needed.

He tried to let that determination show in his face as he went on, keeping his voice perfectly stern.

“You’re going to stand in the corner and think about what you did wrong,” he said. “Once you’ve had some time to think, then we’ll get on with your spanking.” He pointed at the corner again, with more emphasis this time. “Corner time, Sherlock. Go.”

“But—” Sherlock broke off his protest almost at once, but rebellion was scrawled openly across his face. He looked at the corner, then back at John, his face flushing with what appeared to be mingled embarrassment and temper. His mouth opened, then closed again abruptly, as if he’d thought better of what he was about to say. There was a long, frustrated pause before he finally muttered in low and resentful tones, “That’s not _fair_.”

John crossed his arms and straightened his stance, letting his expression harden with it. “It’s perfectly fair,” he said, speaking more sharply now. “You’re being punished, Sherlock. This is your time to think about _why_ you’re being punished. And you’re going to do that in the corner so that your mind is more likely to be on what you’ve done wrong, instead of being distracted by anything else interesting that catches your eye.”

He raised his hand and pointed to the corner again, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock. “Last chance, or you’re getting smacked again for disobedience. Corner time. _Now_.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were fairly blazing now, and his eyes with them. Those eyes swept over John’s face, over his body, as if Sherlock was searching for any possible hint that John might back down. John could almost feel his frustration when he didn’t find any.

But the hesitation was going on too long now, quickly becoming the disobedience that John had just promised consequences for. “Right,” John said. “If that’s the way you want to do it—”

He stepped forward with intent, and Sherlock hastily stepped back, trying to get himself out of range. John could see the shift in his face then, as he realised the limits of his choices. He looked suddenly miserable, helplessly and hopelessly frustrated, and yet there was something else there too that might almost have been relief.

And then, before John could get any closer to him, Sherlock quickly sidestepped and darted across to the corner, taking up the required position facing the wall. There seemed to be a moment where he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, but then he clasped them loosely in the small of his back and straightened himself up. Not quite standing at ease, but not far off it.

“Good choice,” John said. “Next time I expect you to do it without all the backtalk.”

He was half-tempted to give Sherlock the smack he’d earned anyway, but decided against it. Sherlock had gone to the corner, and John was under no illusions about what a struggle that had been for him, especially this first time. He was willing to reward obedience, even reluctant and sulky obedience.

He glanced down at his watch—newly acquired as of yesterday, after his last one fell victim to the dip in the Thames that had been the start of all this. “All right,” he said. “Fifteen minutes in the corner. Think about what you did that’s earned you punishment, because I’m going to be asking. Time starts now.”

Sherlock shifted his feet a little, but said nothing, although John could almost feel the frustration radiating off him. It was probably only going to get worse once he got bored, which was likely to be in about two minutes. If that.

Since Sherlock could no longer see him, John allowed his stern demeanour to ease just a little. He really didn’t enjoy having to do this. He knew Sherlock would probably be feeling highly embarrassed by being sent to stand in the corner like a naughty kid. John didn’t actually intend it to be humiliating—it was for discipline and focus, not for shaming him—but Sherlock didn’t necessarily know that. And when Sherlock wasn’t doing something completely insane, he could be awfully fond of his dignity.

But then, the spanking he was going to get was going to be a lot more undignified, so he probably ought to start getting used to it now. And he really did deserve every bit of this. Even so, looking at Sherlock standing straight-backed and seething in the corner, John felt a surge of affection and sympathy. Honestly, he’d have liked to give Sherlock a hug right now, but he knew perfectly well he’d be doing nothing of the sort until the punishment was over.

Once it was, though, there would be cuddle time, and Sherlock had better not try to protest it if he knew what was good for him.

For now, John had fifteen minutes to kill. He wondered briefly if he ought to leave the room, but quickly thought better of the idea. This was going to be hard enough on Sherlock as it was, and John didn’t want to give him any added temptation to disobey. With John right here watching him, the odds were much more favourable that he’d actually stay in the corner for the full fifteen minutes. And if he didn’t—well, then John would still be right here to crack down on him before any disobedience went too far.

To occupy himself, he sized up the bed, making sure that his plan was going to work. Sherlock’s bed had a curved, round-topped footboard that was really quite perfect for what John had in mind. Pillows, for the sake of comfort, check. Now he’d just need to find the hairbrush, which he couldn’t currently spot. Well, Sherlock would know where it was. And they wouldn’t be needing it until corner time was up anyway.

The minutes ticked by, but John wasn’t surprised when at about the five minute mark, Sherlock began to shift his feet and huff, rolling his shoulders in an irritated fashion. No doubt he was bored now as well as embarrassed. Since this was Sherlock they were talking about, John actually thought he’d done fairly well to make it to five minutes before he started getting restless.

“You’ve got ten minutes to go,” he said firmly. “Keep still and keep thinking, please.”

That got him another huff, but Sherlock stopped shuffling around and went back to glowering at the wall. Not that John could see his face, but the set of Sherlock’s shoulders definitely said glowering.

With nothing else to do, John sat down on the bed. He remembered to sit carefully this time, but even so, it got uncomfortable fairly fast, and after a minute or two he stood up again. He heard another huff from Sherlock that might have been stifled laughter, and pointed a stern look at his back just out of principle. Perhaps Sherlock sensed it, because he stood up a little straighter and wisely kept quiet.

By the time they were at twelve minutes, though, Sherlock had apparently had enough. He rose up onto his toes, heaved a long, put upon sigh and rocked back onto his heels, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. Almost whining, he asked plaintively, “John, how much longer?”

“Head up,” John ordered, not about to let Sherlock get away with too much breaking of posture. “You’re looking at the wall, not the ceiling, and you don’t talk while you’re in the corner.”

He waited for Sherlock to obey, which he did, albeit with another heavy, frustrated sigh. Deciding to give him a bit of encouragement, John added in a milder tone, “And two minutes. You’re almost there.”

Sherlock gave a little groan, but he did manage to stay reasonably still for the last two minutes, although his posture said very clearly that he didn’t like it. Once the allotted fifteen minutes had finally passed, John made sure his authoritative demeanour was firmly in place again and called him out of the corner.

“All right, time’s up. Come here, please.”

Sherlock turned instantly away from the corner, his expression a combination of relief and resentment. He hadn’t enjoyed corner time at all, obviously, which didn’t surprise John. Enforced inactivity was not something that Sherlock tolerated well.

Sherlock moved to stand in front of him, not quite glaring at him, his cheeks still flushed red. John gave him a long, steady look in return. “I’m sorry that was unpleasant,” he said. “But the intention is not to humiliate you. It’s intended to focus you on why we’re doing this, to give you time to think, and also to teach you a lesson.”

Sherlock shifted his weight and scowled down at the floor, crossing his arms over his chest. “It taught me a lesson,” he muttered.

His tone gave John a bad feeling about where this was going. He made his own voice sterner in response, silently willing Sherlock to stop before he crossed a line. “Did it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped back. “I learned a brand new definition of boredom.”

So much for Sherlock not crossing the line. And John knew there was only one response he could give to such open insubordination. Apparently Sherlock knew it too, because he was already taking a step backwards, as if trying to get himself out of range.

“Keep still!” John snapped, in full military bark now. Amazingly, Sherlock froze in mid-step. Without hesitation, John took him firmly by the elbow and turned him sideways. He then shifted his left hand to the middle of Sherlock’s back and applied just a bit of pressure, forcing Sherlock to bend forward a little. Lining up his now more accessible target, John applied a hard, stinging smack to each side of Sherlock’s bottom. Both of them made Sherlock jump, and the second pulled a soft gasp from him.

John stood him up again and turned him back around, meeting the wide grey eyes with an unyielding expression. “That’s earned you another fifteen minutes in the corner,” he said. “Keep this up and you’ll be there all morning, and you’ll still be getting a spanking when that part’s done.” He let his voice harden even more, pointing towards the corner without breaking eye contact. “Corner. Now.”

Eyes still wide, cheeks flaming, Sherlock gave him a look that would have been entirely at home on a heartbroken puppy and shot back into the corner.

John refused to let the heartrending look sway him, no matter how much he might have liked to hug Sherlock in response to it. There’d be time for that later. Right now, he was being Captain Authority Figure, and he’d already sworn to himself that as much as Sherlock tested him, he was going to pass every single one.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said sternly. “Starting now. Hands behind your back, stand still and no talking.” Sherlock had already put his hands behind his back, but as John spoke he hastily straightened up and stood still.

This time, John watched him like a hawk. This wasn’t just corner time, this was extra punishment corner time, and he intended to be strict about it. When Sherlock began to fidget again at about the five minute mark, John scolded him back into position. When it happened a second time a few minutes later, John threatened an additional five minutes of corner time if Sherlock didn’t stand still—and stay still—right that instant. Apparently Sherlock really did not want any more time in the corner, because after that warning he remained very carefully still until the fifteen minutes were up and John called him back out.

“Right then,” John said firmly, once Sherlock was standing in front of him. “Are you ready to behave now, or do you need another round in the corner?”

“No,” Sherlock said at once, giving him a look that was midway between disgusted and pleading. “No . . . please. I’ll—I’ll behave.”

“Good,” John said, giving him a brief, approving nod before turning stern again. “In that case, I think it’s time we moved on to the main event. So, first things first. Your hairbrush. Where is it?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and John could see the flare of alarm go up in the grey. It wasn’t a difficult deduction, after all; in the circumstances, Sherlock knew exactly what John wanted his hairbrush for.

He tried to stall anyway, though. “My hairbrush?” he echoed, as if he was hoping he might have misheard.

“Yes, your hairbrush,” John said evenly. “I told you that the next time you got spanked, it would be with an implement.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Now where is it?”

Sherlock looked fully horrified now—apparently the hairbrush was not something he’d factored in, or at least not seriously. He also looked like he wanted very badly to protest but didn’t quite dare. The complaints were there in his eyes, but he was clearly unwilling to voice them out loud.

_Good_ , John thought. Perhaps Sherlock had learned something from the extra corner time experience. When John was being the disciplinarian, he was not going to put up with disobedience or backtalk. Better that Sherlock understand that right from the start, to save them misunderstandings later.

Sherlock continued to hesitate for several moments more, but John calmly waited him out, keeping his expression firm, authoritative and very clearly not open to negotiation. Apparently Sherlock recognised this, because while he waited for what John thought was probably as long as he dared, he at last pointed slowly and warily towards his chest of drawers, his face falling as he did so. “Right top drawer,” he said, with obvious reluctance.

John turned on his heel and went to retrieve it. Sure enough, the hairbrush was in the right top drawer, and as he pulled it out and got a good look at it, John decided that if it hadn’t been made with spanking in mind, then it really, really should have been. It was made of smooth dark wood, with a flat oval back and a handle solid enough to easily heft it and swing. It was heavy for its size and John would bet money that it had been expensive. He would also bet that it was going to sting like hell when he applied it to Sherlock’s backside.

Sherlock must have come to the same conclusion, because as John returned with hairbrush in hand, his gaze was puppy dog pleading. “Do you have to use that?” he asked, in an uncommonly small voice.

He looked so suddenly miserable that John badly wanted to hug him, but he forced himself not to waver. It was time to be the disciplinarian right now; cuddle time would come later.

“Yes, I do,” he said firmly. “And after that performance this morning, you deserve it.” He didn’t pause to give Sherlock another chance to protest; better that they just get on with this now.

“We’re going to do things a bit differently this time,” he went on. “As a general rule, when I’m spanking you, I’ll have you over my lap, but that’s not going to work today.”

He didn’t elaborate, since they both knew very well why it wasn’t going to work. Not that John couldn’t have tolerated sitting down if he had to, but he didn’t see the need when there was a perfectly good alternative option.

He moved to the head of Sherlock’s bed, and picked up two of the pillows. Coming back to the end, he set the pillows over the middle of the footboard, pressing them into place to make a suitably padded area for Sherlock to bend over. John had thought this through carefully, and he didn’t intend to have Sherlock just stand at the end and lean over; he wanted him fully lying across the footboard. For several reasons; firstly it was a position that meant John would be well able to keep him under control, since Sherlock’s weight distribution once he was in it would mean he couldn’t easily get up. It would also make the target area highly accessible, which he doubted Sherlock would appreciate but which would certainly make things easier for John.

And lastly, with the pillows for cushioning, it would be a more comfortable position for Sherlock to be in for a longer period of time. That was important. John had been thinking over how best to do this, since Sherlock was already carrying bruises from his first spanking. He wanted to be careful of the damage already there, while also not letting Sherlock off too easily. The solution he’d decided on was simple, really: he’d spank more mildly, but for a longer period of time. Depending on how Sherlock reacted to it, quite possibly a _much_ longer period of time.

No doubt Sherlock was going to be very unhappy about such an extended punishment—but he probably wouldn’t be doubting John’s commitment to him afterwards, either.

John stepped back from the footboard of the bed and turned to look at Sherlock, who had been watching silently as he put things in place. He pointed a firm finger at the pillows. “I’m sure you’ve deduced what I want you to do here. So take those pyjamas down, and bend over.”

Sherlock’s expression was nothing short of beseeching now. He looked appalled, and apparently he was unhappy enough to voice a protest, albeit a quiet and rather tentative one. “Couldn’t I just . . . lie down on the bed, or something?”

“No,” John said shortly. “You’re going to bend over the footboard, and you’re going to do it now.” His tone left absolutely no room for argument.

Sherlock swallowed hard, his eyes darting back and forth from John to the waiting pillows. He was flushing again, the splashes of colour in his pale cheeks deepening even as John watched. Seeing his obvious distress, John felt another of those sudden clenches of sympathy, along with a strong desire to just pull Sherlock into a hug and hold him close. He clamped down on the urge, reminding himself firmly that it wasn’t time for that yet, but even so he couldn’t help softening his voice just a little, offering some encouragement even as he stayed mostly stern.

“Sherlock, this is our arrangement now,” he said. “When you misbehave, there are going to be consequences. You misbehaved this morning, and now you’re going to get punished for it. Now come on. Just get it over with.”

Sherlock still looked miserable, but John’s reminder about their arrangement seemed to ease some of the building fight-or-flight tension out of him. He sighed, heavily, but after a moment he obediently stepped forward to place himself in front of the pillows.

There was another long pause then, but John gave him the time instead of scolding him for stalling. This was going to be the hardest part for him, and John was willing to give him a bit of leeway, especially this first time. Sherlock would obey, once he’d worked himself up to it; John was sure of that. After all, if he didn’t want this to happen, at least on some level, they’d never have got this far in the first place.

Sure enough, Sherlock finally took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, seeming to visibly brace himself. His hands went to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, and he untied the drawstring with one quick, deliberate tug. Another indrawn breath, and then he pushed his pyjamas down over his hips and let them slide off. They dropped into a puddle of fabric around his ankles, but Sherlock didn’t spare them a glance, instead looking resolutely forward as he leaned over the footboard and braced his hands on the bed before lowering himself down onto the pillows.

John’s first thought was that the position really was pretty much ideal for administering a spanking. Supported by the footboard, Sherlock was bent over sharply at the hips so that his bottom was quite literally the highest point of his body, and raised at such an angle as to be a perfect target. And at that angle he couldn’t keep his feet flat on the floor, so he’d had to go up onto his toes, letting all of his weight rest forward. With the pillows for cushioning, he was probably quite comfortable, but he was so off-balance that it would be very easy for John to keep him down there.

That was his first thought. His second thought, hard on the heels of it, was that now he wanted to hug Sherlock even more for being so bloody brave.

In lieu of a hug, he rested a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, patting a couple of times before giving a quick, comforting rub. It had occurred to him that bent over like that, Sherlock would have difficulty seeing anything behind him—the footboard would obscure most of his view. A bit of physical reassurance might help to remind him of John’s presence as a guardian, as well as a disciplinarian. This was punishment, but John also wanted to put across a strong message of _I’m here_. That was the point of this, after all. He intended to be there for Sherlock in every way that counted.

Sherlock didn’t seem concerned with his lack of view at the moment, though. He had folded his arms in front of him and buried his face in them, so that all John could see was the back of his curly head. He looked very much like he was trying to hide, and John let his stern demeanour drop for just a moment, asking gently, “Would you like a pillow?”

A pause, then a nod, and Sherlock’s quiet, muffled voice said, “Yes, please.”

John crossed back to the head of the bed and got another one, which he placed on the bed beside Sherlock. Sherlock took it at once and wrapped his arms around it, burying his face in the pillow instead. Watching him, John couldn’t help smiling just a little. It was unbelievably endearing how Sherlock seemed almost to turn back into a little kid in these situations. Not that Sherlock didn’t behave like a child anyway on a fairly regular basis, but this—this was different somehow. And maybe it was part of what he needed.

But he also needed discipline, and now it was time to get to it. John had offered some reassurance, given him a bit of comfort, and now Sherlock was due the correction he had so spectacularly earned.

John moved to stand directly to Sherlock’s right, just beside the footboard in the prime position for aiming. He hefted the hairbrush in his left hand and cast an assessing eye over his target. The patchwork of bruises low down on Sherlock’s bottom was still quite visible, but they had started to fade now; they had never been really severe. Even so, John intended to be careful. He’d avoid the marked areas as much as possible, and concentrate on smacking lightly but sharply, going for sting instead of any bruising force. And also . . . hmm.

John’s eyes moved lower, then narrowed as he considered. Well, there was another option. Sherlock’s bottom might have some bruises, but his thighs were totally unmarked; John hadn’t smacked him there at all when he’d spanked him the first time. He wouldn’t have to worry about possibly worsening existing damage. He also wouldn’t have to spank hard there to make a point. A few good swats with the hairbrush and the sensitive skin would be on fire.

John mentally added that onto his plan. Sherlock wasn’t going to like it, but it wouldn’t do him any harm. And really, after this morning’s madness, getting his thighs smacked was the least he deserved.

Right then, John thought firmly. Time to get to it. He deliberately clamped down on the sympathy he felt, the urge to take Sherlock into his arms and cuddle him, and pulled his disciplinarian face decisively back into place. He had to be Captain Authority Figure again now, the tough-love guardian caretaker that Sherlock seemed to need, and he was going to prove to his mad genius friend that he really was committed to this new arrangement they’d made.

He hefted the hairbrush again, then brought it down to press lightly across the crest of Sherlock’s bottom. Sherlock flinched a little at the contact, and John automatically put his free hand in the small of his back to steady him.

Despite that comforting gesture, though, his voice was stern. “Sherlock, do you understand why you’re being punished?”

Last time, he’d asked this, or something close to it, while he was in the middle of spanking Sherlock. It had been a spur of the moment thing just like the spanking itself had been, a way of breaking Sherlock’s determined silence by forcing an answer from him. He’d thought about it this time, though, and decided that it was probably more appropriate to ask before he got started. Corner time for thinking, then question and answer to make sure Sherlock was properly focused on what he’d done wrong. Not that he wouldn’t still scold Sherlock during the spanking too, but he’d thought these initial questions really seemed more suited to the preparation part.

He felt Sherlock shift under his hand, an uncomfortable little squirm. His reply was low and heavily muffled by the pillow, but it was audible as, “Yes.”

“Tell me.” And hopefully, John thought, Sherlock had used his corner time for more than just sulking, and would be able to actually answer that.

“I . . .” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as he hesitated, then he seemed to steel himself and went on, even lifting his face from the pillow a little so that he could be better understood. “I took your gun. I fired it in the flat.”

“Correct,” John said. “Now tell me why that was wrong.”

There was a pause, but John didn’t sense rebellion in the momentary silence, only uncertainty. Apparently this was a harder question—probably, he thought, because Sherlock didn’t actually think it _was_ wrong. He knew what John was upset about, but not so much the why.

He finally answered, but he sounded more tentative this time. “It’s dangerous. And . . . loud. I frightened you. And Mrs Hudson as well.”

“All true,” John said. “Especially the dangerous part. I know you can handle a gun, but firing one inside isn’t sensible. And firing one inside at whopping great pieces of glassware definitely isn’t sensible. You weren’t wearing anything protective. You didn’t even have shoes on. I know you like to experiment and I’m not going to get in the way of that, but I’m not going to let you harm yourself doing it either.”

He paused for a moment to let that sink in, then went on. “Not to mention, you know damn well that I’m not even supposed to have that gun. What if someone had called the police? We’d be right in it if we got caught with it.”

Thankfully, the neighbours were used to loud and peculiar noises coming from their flat, and were probably fairly unlikely to call the police unless things got really insane, but even so, John preferred not to take the chance. Not only would he rather not be arrested himself, but he was also very well aware that there were members of the police who had a grudge against Sherlock, and would be more than happy to see him up on charges. John didn’t intend to let that happen, not if he could possibly prevent it. Sherlock might not think of it as a safety issue, but John certainly did.

And so, his next point—and really the most important one. Because the whole problem was that Sherlock didn’t consider any number of things to be safety issues, even when they very obviously were. And if Sherlock wasn’t willing or able to keep himself safe, then John would have to do it for him, by just making rules that Sherlock obeyed _or else_. And in this case, the rule had already been firmly in place, and Sherlock had broken it. Time to remind him of that before the actual discipline got underway.

He let his voice become sterner as he spoke again, wanting to make this point as firmly as possible. “But more than that,” he said, “is that you also know damn well you’re not supposed to touch my gun unless the situation is really serious. I’ve told you before, unless someone’s safety is at risk, you keep your hands off it. You knew that when you took it, didn’t you?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, as if he was thinking that over, and John wondered if the disobedience angle had really occurred to him. Quite possibly not, or at least not completely; after all, disobedience hadn’t often come with any real consequences before now.

He could hardly argue that he hadn’t known, however, and sure enough after a moment he quietly answered, “Yes.”

“In other words, you disobeyed me. I told you no, and you did it anyway. So tell me again: why was it wrong to take my gun and start firing it in the flat?”

Sherlock gave another little squirm, but even if he didn’t like the answer he wasn’t really in a position to be defiant about it. “It was disobedient,” he replied dutifully. His voice was muffled again—he’d pressed his face back into the pillow.

“Yes, it was,” John said firmly. “There are rules for my gun, and you know what they are. And from now on, if you break them, there are going to be consequences. You play with my gun, Sherlock, and you’re going to get spanked, good and hard. Understood?”

Sherlock’s curls bounced as he nodded emphatically into the pillow. “Yes.”

“Good.” John patted his back, the last bit of comfort he could let himself offer before the real punishment started. “Then I’m sorry I have to do this, but I hope it’ll help you remember for next time.”

With that, John raised the hairbrush, feeling Sherlock instantly tense under his free hand as he braced himself. He’d decided to keep his hand on Sherlock’s back, at least for now—since he couldn’t have Sherlock over his lap, the steadying hand on him would still supply a physical connection between them. Sherlock might or might not need it, but John would feel better if he had it, especially this first time.

And then he brought the brush down, angling it so that the flat, smooth back smacked sharply across the upturned crest of Sherlock’s bottom. The crack of the impact seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room, and Sherlock jumped and sucked in his breath hard as it connected.

John knew the reaction was probably mostly shock, but he had no doubt that it had stung as well, especially when he saw the vivid red mark left behind. He was again glad he’d insisted that they do this with Sherlock bare from now on. The first time he’d spanked Sherlock, he’d had nothing but Sherlock’s reactions to go on. This time he’d be able to gauge the intensity of it for himself, without having to worry about Sherlock being overly stubborn.

He smacked the brush down again, feeling Sherlock give another little jump under his hand. A second red mark joined the first, bright against the pale skin, and John wondered vaguely if Sherlock was regretting the good quality of his hairbrush.

He had scolded Sherlock as he spanked last time, and he began to do the same now, finding a rhythm as he matched the smacks to the words.

“You _don’t_ play with my _gun_. _Unless_ someone is in _danger_ , you _keep_ your hands _off_ it. And you _don’t_ disobey after I’ve told you _no_. From now _on_ , if I tell you to _do_ something, or _not_ to do something, you will _do_ as you’re _told_. If you _don’t_ , then you are _going_ to get _spanked_.”

He was making the smacks sharp rather than truly hard, trying to have them land with a snap instead of with any real force. He was also doing his best to avoid any of the bruises already present, trying to spank around them while still staying to the lower, more padded areas. Even so, Sherlock’s bottom was already turning an impressive shade of red everywhere the hairbrush had struck. It had to seriously sting, although Sherlock hadn’t made a sound apart from a few little gasps at some particularly sharp spanks.

He was tense under John’s hand, though, and John could feel him flinch every time the hairbrush came down. And by the end of that little scolding, with all the accompanying smacks, he had started to squirm just a little, surreptitiously shifting his weight from side to side. As stoic as he was trying to be, he was feeling it. And not surprisingly, since John would bet that the hairbrush on bare skin was stinging a lot more than his hand over pyjama bottoms had.

He was going to feel it more before they were done, though. John had determined that this was going to be a milder but more extended spanking, and they were nowhere near finished yet. He kept scolding, driving his points home with swift, sharp cracks of the hairbrush.

“And _when_ you do your _experiments_ , you will _take_ at least some _minimal_ safety pre _cautions_. You will _not_ litter the _floor_ with shards of _glass_ when you have nothing on your _feet_. You will _wear_ protective _gear_ when you _need_ it. I do _not_ want you getting _hurt_ by taking silly _risks_.”

By the time he got through that round of scolding, he had run out of unspanked spots and was spanking over areas that had felt the hairbrush already, deepening the red flush with every smack. Sherlock was tense to the point of being rigid now, muscles locked taut under John’s steadying hand, right down to his toes which had curled up tightly against the floor. His squirming had become much more noticeable, and John could see just by the strain in his body that it was taking a hell of a lot of effort for him to stay as still as he was.

A pulse of mingled admiration and sympathy pushed its way through his stern front, and he allowed himself to pause, suddenly feeling the need to clarify—again—that Sherlock wasn’t required to be this stubbornly stoic.

“Sherlock,” he said, letting his voice gentle just a bit. “You’re being very good. Remember, you’re allowed to let me know that it hurts. If you want to cry out, or even just say ow, you can. You don’t have to, but you don’t have to stay silent either. Okay?”

He heard Sherlock draw in a quivering breath, and the curly head nodded once against the pillow. John wasn’t about to try to force a verbal answer out of him, so he just patted his back again. “Okay. Here we go. Deep breath.”

He realised as he said it that he sounded like a doctor trying to ease a patient through some unpleasant but necessary procedure. Well, he _was_ a doctor, and he supposed the situations weren’t really so far removed. This was undoubtedly unpleasant, but for the sake of Sherlock’s safety, it _was_ necessary.

He steeled himself, then raised the hairbrush and smacked it down, letting it land with a smart crack low down on Sherlock’s bottom. Sherlock jumped hard as it connected, and John heard him gulp in a hitching gasp of air. Not allowing himself to waver, he resumed the spanking, and the scolding to go with it, although he was just reiterating his points now. Since this was their first official ‘post-arrangement’ spanking, he thought he probably ought to be clear about things.

“ _This_ is what you’ll _get_ if you _play_ with my gun _again_. _This_ is what you’ll _get_ if you _disobey_ me. _This_ is how it’s going to _be_ from now _on_. _This_ is our _arrangement_. When you _misbehave_ , you _will get punished_.”

With those points firmly made, John followed them up by spanking without the accompanying scolding for a while, giving Sherlock some time to think about what he’d just said. He did keep his hand on Sherlock’s back, to steady him, and also because he wanted even more to make sure Sherlock had a physical connection to him now that John wasn’t talking to him. He made the smacks a little lighter, but spanked faster instead, and made sure that every non-bruised spot on Sherlock’s backside got at least one taste of the brush. At least one, and by the time he was done, it was probably more like three.

By the time he’d finished with that part, he knew Sherlock was really feeling it, even though he still hadn’t let out so much as a peep. Despite his silence, he was wriggling in obvious discomfort, shifting his weight from side to side as much as he could in his off-balance position. His breathing was ragged, and he was clutching the pillow for dear life, keeping his face pressed tightly into it. Not surprising at all, considering the obviously blazing state of his bottom. John had made sure to keep any real force out of the smacks, but even taking the care that he had, Sherlock’s once pale skin was approaching fire engine intensity now.

Time for a new target then, he thought. He’d mentally promised Sherlock a few good smacks on his thighs, and on that sensitive area he wouldn’t have to spank very hard to make a very firm point indeed.

He gave Sherlock no warning of what was coming, merely shifted his position slightly and brought the hairbrush down in a smart smack on the top of Sherlock’s right thigh, just below his bottom. Without hesitation, he followed up that first spank with five more in quick succession, moving down Sherlock’s thigh but letting each smack partly overlap the previous one.

Even though it couldn’t have hurt as much as the repeated smacks on Sherlock’s already well-paddled bottom, the effect it had was dramatic. Sherlock gasped into the pillow, his back arching as every muscle seemed to pull taut. He didn’t quite cry out, but he gave a sort of muffled ‘Mmfff!’ that John suspected he’d never have let slip if he hadn’t been so taken by surprise. He didn’t doubt that it stung, and badly, but that almost-yelp had been more shocked than hurt.

But it obviously did sting, and there was no doubt in John’s mind that Sherlock really, really didn’t like it. By the time John had repeated the procedure on his other thigh, then gone back to the start and done the whole thing again, Sherlock had started to squirm in real earnest, twisting from side to side as best he could, clutching his pillow desperately and scrabbling his toes against the floor in obvious distress.

As much as John disliked the fact that he was hurting Sherlock enough to cause it, he was nonetheless grateful to see the unhappy reaction. They were almost done. Just a little more to make sure he’d really made his point.

He smacked the hairbrush down again, going back to the right thigh again this time, layering another six sharp spanks on top of the first two sets. The smarting red flush grew deeper with every smack, and Sherlock let out a series of hitching gasps and drummed his toes on the floor in protest.

“Are you going to play with my gun again?” John asked sternly, once the six smacks had been delivered.

Sherlock shook his head frantically, curls bouncing from side to side. John thought for an instant about insisting on a verbal answer, but just as quickly decided that a head shake would do. Not hesitating, he administered the matching six spanks to Sherlock’s left thigh, drawing forth more gasping, more toe-drumming and finally a low, tearful-sounding groan.

That was it, then. He’d made his point. Time to finish this up.

He went on to the next question, his tone still perfectly stern. “Are you going to be more careful with your safety when you’re doing experiments?”

Frantic nodding from Sherlock this time. He was hugging the pillow so tightly that John had no idea how he was breathing in there.

“Good,” he said. He brought the hairbrush down again, but gently this time, letting it rest low down across Sherlock’s bottom. “As for disobeying me, just remember—if you do, _this_ is what you’ll get.” _This_ was accompanied by a firm pat, not quite a proper smack. “Do you understand me, Sherlock Holmes?”

More frantic nodding, and a muffled, desperate, “Yes!”

“All right.” He spoke gently that time, and dropped the hairbrush onto the bed, signalling the end of the punishment. He patted Sherlock’s lower back, then started to rub comfortingly back and forth. “All right, it’s all over.”

Sherlock was still strung tight and quivering under his hand, but after a moment John felt some of the rigid tension slowly begin to ease. He kept rubbing, trying to encourage Sherlock to relax, still speaking gently and reassuringly. “It’s all right now. We’re all finished. Punishment over. You were very good, very brave. Just relax now.”

Sherlock seemed to be trying to, but his breath was still coming in hitching, unsteady gulps, his shoulders giving little jerks on every rapid inhale. And he still had his face buried in that bloody pillow; it was a wonder he hadn’t suffocated clutching it that tightly. Still, John hardly needed to see his face to know how distressed he was; he could see it in every trembling line of Sherlock’s body.

Right, then. Some serious comforting was needed, and John would be only too happy to provide it. First, though, he needed to get Sherlock up. He’d been trying to give him a minute to calm down a little so as to make that task easier, but now he’d rather not wait. If Sherlock was shaky on his feet, then fine. John was quite capable of manhandling him if he had to; Sherlock was taller but he didn’t exactly have a lot of spare flesh on him, and John was stronger than he looked.

He patted Sherlock’s back again. “All right, you need a proper cuddle, I think. Come on, let’s get you up.” He waited a moment, then patted a bit more when Sherlock didn’t respond. “Sherlock. Come on, you. Up you get. Don’t worry if you’re a bit wobbly, I’ll help you.”

Another pause, still with no response from Sherlock, and John wondered if he might need to give more specific instructions. “Sherlock. Come on. Let go of that pillow and just push up. I’ll get you the rest of the way.”

That finally seemed to do the trick, as Sherlock slowly obeyed, releasing his death grip on the pillow and bracing his hands on the bed. He gave a shuddering sigh and shakily pushed himself up, rocking his weight back so that he could put his heels on the floor. John caught him around the waist, being mindful of his undoubtedly very sore bottom, and held onto him until he was sure Sherlock’s knees weren’t going to buckle under him. Poor Sherlock was still trembling hard, and once he was mostly upright he grabbed hold of the footboard to steady himself, clutching it almost as tightly as he had clutched the pillow. He stood with his head low, quivering all over and breathing in fast, uneven little hitches.

John waited until Sherlock had more or less steadied himself, then carefully let go of him, watching him closely to make sure he was going to stay upright. “Just hold there a minute, and I’ll get you dressed again,” he said. “Then you can lie down.”

He bent and grabbed Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, which had ended up a hopeless tangle of fabric around his ankles. John managed to straighten them out and gently pulled them up, trying to make sure he didn’t scrape them over Sherlock’s poor crimson bottom. Even as careful as he was, Sherlock still gave a hiss of pain as the thin fabric settled over his punished skin.

“Sorry,” John said, with a wince of sympathy. “I know it hurts.” He reached quickly around Sherlock’s waist and managed to get the drawstring on his pyjamas loosely tied, to prevent them from sliding straight back down again. “All right,” he said. “All done. Come on, let’s get you on the bed.”

He kept an arm around Sherlock’s waist, gently encouraging him to let go of the footboard and move so that he could lie down on the bed. Sherlock just about crawled onto it, seeming too shaky on his feet to do much else, and let himself gingerly flop forwards onto his belly. John hastily grabbed the pillows off the footboard, replacing them at the head of the bed, and slid onto it on the other side.

“Come here, you,” he said very gently, taking hold of Sherlock’s shoulder and giving him a little tug. “Cuddle time.”

The words were a deliberate echo; he’d said exactly the same thing to start off the first cuddle time they’d had. The term had been a spur of the moment thing, but Sherlock’s sleepily disdainful reaction had been amusing enough to make him want to keep using it.

And despite his complaints about the name, Sherlock hadn’t refused it then, and he didn’t refuse it now. Deprived of his pillow, he’d buried his face in the duvet and he still didn’t lift it, but at John’s invitation he immediately scooted himself close and buried his face in John’s shoulder instead.

The almost needy gesture spoke volumes about just how distressed Sherlock really was, and John felt his insides clench in painful sympathy. That close together, Sherlock’s overwrought trembling was even more apparent; he was literally quivering from head to toe. John couldn’t help the pained little noise that he himself made, feeling that, and he immediately wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him even closer into a tight, affectionate hug.

“It’s all right,” he soothed, his voice dropping into a low murmur. “It’s okay now. It’s all over. I’ve got you.”

He moved one hand up to Sherlock’s head and began gently stroking his hair, letting his fingers card through the unruly curls. In response, Sherlock made a soft, miserable little sound and pressed his face more firmly into John’s shoulder. John looked down in concern, quickly lifting his hand away.

“You don’t like that?” he asked gently. Sherlock hadn’t seemed averse to hair-stroking before, but John didn’t want to do it if he didn’t like it.

Sherlock shook his head, then made a vaguely frustrated sounding noise and nodded instead. John frowned, trying to interpret that. “You do like it?”

Sherlock nodded again, still not lifting his head. Glad to have got the signals sorted out, John murmured, “Okay then. I’ll keep doing it.” He resumed the gentle caress, and felt Sherlock shudder against him as his breath hitched again.

“Shhh, it’s all right,” John assured him, very softly. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. Just try to relax.”

Sherlock’s only response was another miserable little shudder. John wasn’t sure if he was actually crying or not, but if he wasn’t, he was damn close to it. He tried to hug even tighter, tried to project comfort as best he could, still twining his fingers through Sherlock’s mop of curls, all the while keeping up his litany of reassurance. “It’s okay. You’re all right, Sherlock. I’m right here. I’ll stay with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

He felt Sherlock shift against him then, and automatically loosened his hold a little, thinking that perhaps he was hugging too hard. But then, very slowly, Sherlock moved one arm, sliding it across to gingerly wrap around John’s waist in return.

The gesture was tentative, more of a cautious drape than a hug, but it took him by surprise, and John abruptly realised that this was the first time Sherlock had really done anything like hugging back, at least while he was actually awake. Asleep, yes; while he was asleep he’d snuggled as close to John as he could get. But during the few conscious cuddle times they’d had so far, Sherlock had allowed himself to be hugged rather than doing any hugging in return.

John was suddenly reminded of what he’d thought the very first time he’d hugged Sherlock, after the spur of the moment spanking that had started all of this. John had been unsure, then, if Sherlock would even accept an embrace as comfort. He had done, but John had got the strong impression of someone who wanted comfort but was so unused to physical reassurance that he simply didn’t know what to do with it. Sherlock might let himself be hugged, but he didn’t hug back.

But now—he was hugging back. Tentatively, yes, but he was having a go at it. And that, John thought, said an awful lot in itself about just how much things had changed between them.

He lowered his free hand to cover Sherlock’s, pulling that draping arm more tightly around himself. “This is okay,” he said, his voice still soft but with a note of gentle intensity. “You’re allowed to do this. If you want to hold on to me, that’s okay. Hold on to me. Hug me back. I’m right here, Sherlock. Hold on as tight as you like, I don’t mind a bit.”

He wasn’t sure just how much effect his encouragement would have—baby steps, after all, and Sherlock _was_ hugging him already. But to his surprise, and great satisfaction, it seemed as if that permission was all that Sherlock needed. He didn’t say anything, but his hold tightened around John’s waist—tightened and tightened more until he was almost clinging. He had even taken a handful of John’s shirt and was clinging to that, too.

“Good, that’s good,” John told him, hugging just as tightly in return. “Hold onto me all you like. You were really brave, you took that so well. Now you get cuddled, and it’s okay to cuddle back.”

He was vaguely aware that he was using a tone that could be considered juvenile—and if Sherlock had been more himself, he might well have named it as insufferably condescending as ‘cuddle time’ was—but it seemed right, somehow. And Sherlock couldn’t have minded it too much, because he certainly didn’t let go. He clung to John, face firmly hidden against his shoulder, while John held him close, rubbed his back and stroked his hair and whispered more reassurance.

His efforts were rewarded as little by little, Sherlock’s breathing evened out, the hiccupping hitches subsiding into a normal rhythm. As his breathing eased, so did the shivering, and slowly the bowstring-tight tension eased out of his body until he was all but limp. He kept his hold on John’s shirt, though, even when his clinging hug had relaxed. John wasn’t sure he actually had words for how endearing that was, although he had no intention of offending Sherlock’s dignity by ever mentioning it anyway.

Honestly, he was just glad he was able to do this, that Sherlock would accept this kind of comfort from him. It seemed like the closer they became, the more John understood just how much Sherlock hadn’t had this kind of looking after. The picture he’d painted of his childhood yesterday—well, reading between the lines it was pretty bleak, at least on an emotional level. Lonely and frustrated at school, his father gone, his mother struggling to cope with him, constantly at odds with his brother. Sherlock had been well cared for in all the ways that money could buy, but not in the ways that it couldn’t. Small wonder, really, that it seemed like comfort was so foreign to him.

Well, it wasn’t going to be foreign to him anymore, John vowed to himself. If he was going to discipline Sherlock, then he was damn well going to cuddle and console him afterwards, and Sherlock would just have to get used to it. Luckily, from the reactions he’d got so far, he didn’t think Sherlock was going to object. The poor thing had been touch-starved for far too long already.

Sherlock’s breathing had grown so deep and even now that John thought he must surely have fallen asleep. Hardly surprising after the morning they’d had, especially since John had no idea how long Sherlock had actually been awake before he started shooting at glassware. He still hadn’t taken his face out of John’s shoulder, but then, he seemed to have a remarkable talent for breathing through things like shoulders, and pillows. He certainly appeared to be comfortable enough.

John was pretty damn comfortable too, all things considered. Cuddling like this really was _nice_ ; it was so pleasant to just have a warm body up against his, and the close comfort of another person. The contrast of it made him think back to his life before he’d met Sherlock, and he was suddenly and fiercely grateful for the whim that had taken him out walking on that fateful day when he’d run into Mike Stamford in the park. Where the hell would he be now if that hadn’t happened? He certainly wouldn’t be cuddled up to a sleepy crime-solving lunatic genius, and John knew his life would have been much the poorer for it.

He felt a sudden surge of affection for the crime-solving lunatic genius in question, and without even thinking about it, he ducked his head to press a light kiss into Sherlock’s curly hair.

Promptly contradicting John’s assumption that he was asleep, Sherlock stirred slightly at the contact and murmured without lifting his head, “You’re kissing me now?”

That was typical Sherlock, John thought—living to be contrary in all possible ways. Although he sounded so muzzy that he was probably at least half-asleep, so John decided he hadn’t been totally wrong. “I thought you were asleep,” he said.

Sherlock’s voice was still a drowsy murmur, but there was a hint of a snide tone there all the same. “You’re kissing me in my sleep now?”

John smiled. Sherlock was already bouncing back, it seemed, if he was able to be snarky. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I am kissing you in your sleep, sneakily.” He rubbed Sherlock’s back, adding in a more gentle tone, “Are you all right?”

Sherlock nodded against his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“Tired?” John prompted. Not that he really needed to ask, since Sherlock sounded totally wiped out. Whether he would admit it was something else entirely, of course.

“A bit,” Sherlock replied, which coming from Sherlock meant that he was utterly exhausted. John hugged him a bit closer, his hand still moving in little circles on Sherlock’s back.

“You can sleep if you want to,” he encouraged. “I’ll stay with you if you like.”

Sherlock made an affirmative sound and nuzzled his head more firmly against John’s shoulder, apparently pleased with that idea. Then he stilled, and after a moment of hesitation he asked almost tentatively, “You don’t mind?”

He seemed genuinely uncertain, and John hastened to reassure him. “No, I’m good here,” he said. He smiled down at the curly head on his shoulder, adding in a wry, half-stern tone, “I was actually still asleep when you started shooting the place up, you know. I wouldn’t mind a bit more.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, as if he was considering that, then rather to John’s surprise he offered a murmured, “I’m sorry.”

He hadn’t actually apologised before, not even while he was being spanked—probably because he hadn’t been particularly sorry, John thought wryly. Now, though, he sounded honestly contrite. Of course that might well only be because he was half-asleep, but John was happy to accept anyway.

“It’s all right,” he said fondly. “You’re forgiven. Just don’t do it again, eh?”

Sherlock shook his head, a vigorous back and forth against John’s shoulder. “I won’t.” There was a pause, then he added in a soft, almost thoughtful tone, “That really hurt.”

A bit surprised that Sherlock would say that so openly, John automatically glanced down. Of course since Sherlock still had his face hidden, all John could see was the top of his head, which didn’t provide him with a lot of clues. Still, he had the feeling that Sherlock might be moving steadily more towards three quarters asleep now. Yes, he was talking perfectly well, but he possibly wasn’t thinking too hard about just what he was saying.

“I know,” he replied carefully. “And I’m sorry it did. I didn’t like hurting you. You know that, don’t you?”

Despite being, and sounding, at least half-asleep, Sherlock still managed to produce a scornful tone. “Of course I do.”

His answer seemed to strongly imply that to think anything to the contrary would be idiotic, something that John was actually grateful for, even with the haughty tone. He’d have hated for Sherlock to think he’d enjoyed causing him pain. All right, he’d admit that there was a certain satisfaction to be found in actually making Sherlock behave himself for five minutes—and also in feeling like he was doing something real and concrete to keep his lunatic friend alive and safe. But even so, John didn’t like hurting him, and he was glad to hear that Sherlock knew that.

“Good,” he said, adding, “Not that I won’t do it whenever you earn it, but I don’t enjoy hurting you.”

Sherlock gave a soft snort. “I know very well you’re not a sadist, John,” he said, and John marvelled again at how he could manage to sound so completely disdainful while nearly asleep and with his face buried in John’s shoulder.

“Just making sure,” he said mildly. “This is still new for both of us.”

Sherlock snorted again, although when he spoke this time he sounded more sulky than scornful. “You wouldn’t know it from how sore I am,” he muttered.

John couldn’t help but grin a little at the obvious pouting. “I should think so too, after behaviour like that,” he said, half-stern, but he patted Sherlock’s back in sympathy anyway. “I’ll put some more arnica cream on you a bit later. That’ll help take the sting out.”

“Yes, please,” Sherlock agreed, sounding like he was stifling a yawn. He nuzzled a bit closer, adding, “I’d better put some on you, as well.”

John chuckled. “I’d appreciate it, after that visit to the headmaster’s office yesterday.” Demonstration or not, he could definitely still feel those cane strokes today. Not that he was surprised, given that he’d been able to trace the welts with his fingers in the shower last night. He hadn’t quite given in to the temptation to have a look in the mirror, but he could imagine what they must look like.

“Headmaster’s office was one thing,” Sherlock said. His voice had dropped back into that vague and sleepy thoughtfulness. “I haven’t been slapped on the legs since I was in primary school.”

Amused, John said teasingly, “I thought you deleted primary school.”

“Not that part,” Sherlock replied darkly—or at least it might have been darkly if he hadn’t sounded quite so muzzy.

John grinned. “I bet you were a terror,” he said. Primary school Sherlock—Christ, the mind boggled.

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock protested. “The other kids were just idiots.” He paused, then added on another yawn, “The teachers were too.”

“Oh, God,” John said, half-laughing. He had previously imagined an awkward, skinny teenage Sherlock imperiously telling his teachers they were _wrong!_ Now he was imagining a tiny, cherub-faced Sherlock doing the same thing, and the image was equal parts adorable and hilarious.

“They were,” Sherlock insisted. His voice was starting to slur, and John realised that he was fading fast now. Not surprising, since he’d been half-asleep for pretty much the entire conversation.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said wryly. “I bet they loved being told that, too.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head into John’s shoulder again, a single slow back and forth. “I kept getting my legs slapped.”

John couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped at that. “Serves you right,” he said, but he ran a hand fondly over Sherlock’s curls. “And you’re just about talking in your sleep now. Be quiet and go to sleep properly.”

“I don’t talk in my sleep,” Sherlock murmured. John thought he might have been trying to sound indignant, but he was far too drowsy now to even come close.

“Shut up, then,” he replied with a chuckle. “Go to sleep.”

Sherlock mumbled something else, but he was so far gone into sleep that John couldn’t tell what it was. More than likely, he thought, it was just an attempt to have the last word. Well, too bad, because John was pretty sure Sherlock had just gone out like a light.

He waited a few moments, listening to Sherlock’s deep, even breathing, then tilted his head down to drop another kiss onto the curly hair. “Yes, I’m kissing you in your sleep now,” he said very softly. “So there.”

 


End file.
